He didn't know how long he had remained there, numb with the knowledge that his love was not returned. It didn't matter now; he had lost her. He had loved her, and for that love he had let her go. As long as she's happy ... for her happiness ... if it's what she wants ... but that didn't make the hurt any less agonizing. He felt as though someone had taken his heart and ripped half of it away.

Alone in his dark little room he remained, curled in the corner, trembling with a type of withdrawal.

As long as she's happy ...

If she's happy, then I don't mind ...

But those were lies. He loved her. He wanted her. He needed her, and without her he would surely die.

The tears finally came, falling heedlessly from his eyes, each scalding mercilessly down his pale cheeks, each a reminder of what he had lost. Or perhaps, what he had never had. A strangled sob broke from the confines of his throat at that thought. Lucrecia had never loved him. /Never ... never ... never ... /Pressing a hand to his feverish brow, he tried to collect his thoughts. Tried to make sense of what had taken place. It was hopeless. There was no sense to be had for it was all chaos.

She was supposed to love him ... that was the way love was supposed to be. When you love someone, shouldn't they love you back? Never an idealist, never one to believe in what fiction said about love and affection ... then how had he ended up this way? He was a killer, a hired assassin. How could he judge what love truly was ... but he had. He had loved purely, deeply, unconditionally, happy to sit alongside whilst she busied herself with projects he didn't understand. He had asked nothing more of her than to return his love and she had outright rejected him. Damned him to forever live in his own little world of shattered dreams, alone ... always alone, for who could love a killer?

Not she. Never ... she was too intelligent, too kind, too good for the likes of him, and it gnawed at his soul to know that.

Twisting uncomfortably, he sought to curl away into the darkness. Perhaps, if he remained here long enough he would simply disappear. After all, wasn't that what he wanted?

Life held little meaning now that she had rejected him, and yet his heart continued its beat. Shattered, destroyed, ravaged, yet still it beat on steadily, tauntingly so as a constant reminder that his life would not be ended so easily as to die of a broken heart.

Then perhaps he would take matters into his own hands and force it to cease. But no, he wasn't that far gone yet ... or so he prayed.

Madness had taken him, but had not yet broken him. Fate was still his own, and he feared to lose that. Teetering so close to an emotional breakdown, he fought for that control. But how could he keep that control when the only thing that grounded him had vanished from his world? Had she not seen it? The way he worshipped and adored her very presence ... the way he respected her ... the way he loved her. She was his world, and how without her could he continue to live?

He could not.

He would simply exist in this realm of misery and heartache. Monarch of his own little empire where demons dwelt and the forsaken wept. Befitting for a killer such as himself.

And to think he had thought himself worthy.

Hojo had so much more he could offer her. Security, a future, all the things he could not. Turks died often, it was an inevitable fact that in time even the best would meet their untimely end. He had known this, and still he had loved her. And though it was selfish of him, he knew he would always love her and would have gladly spent the remainder of his days with her, regardless of how brief they might be.

But now, that was nothing more than a once wistful dream. A hope for a future with a woman to love now shattered. She had rejected him, and in that had reduced him to a shell of the man he was. Vincent Valentine wouldn't have run from his problems like this, and hid in darkness to sulk like a spoiled child. He would have fought for her love.

Days of chivalry were long past, and as much as he tried to tell him he was happy for her, his heart could not lie.

His mind wandered to the delicate curves of her body, the way the sunlight played upon her auburn kissed hair, her piercing green eyes. He had lost that along with her heart. He had lost the one thing he had placed store in. His future was forever altered with her words.

'Vincent, no.' So soft, damningly sweet as her eyes spoke what she could not. Words of how he should have known better, known that she couldn't give up this life she had chosen, couldn't run away with a Turk, couldn't return what he so desired. She had fled a moment later, refusing to allow him to see her tears. She was a strong woman, too logical for love, too logical for tears. But they had come, and he had seen them even as Hojo comforted her.

He thought of Hojo making love to her, drawing screams from her pretty mouth, and making empty promises of love to her. He thought of them together tangled in an embrace, gasping out their ecstasy and his mind snapped, and he hastily loaded his pistol. It was too much, the thought of Hojo and Lucrecia laughing at him whilst they fucked, he wouldn't let Hojo take her from him.

He shakily rose, and staggered toward the door, his vision blurred with tears. He wouldn't let Hojo have her. He saw in a blur of colours, the pistol slipping from his hands and blood, so much blood, blood that would stain his hands forever ... and though somewhere he knew that there was something horridly wrong with this jealous rage, he cared not. If he was damning himself in this act, so be it. He would die before Hojo took her away from him, and so he reached for the door.

If she's happy then ... I don't mind.

He choked back a sob. What had he become? He was willing to kill the man the woman he loved had chosen. He was willing to destroy her happiness because he couldn't bear the thought of her with him. He realized then how close he had become to destroying her ... what if in his rage he had not stopped with Hojo, what if he had killed her as well? He wasn't to be trusted now ... He collapsed to his knees, sobbing. What had he become ... he truly was the heartless killer Hojo had accused him once of being. She had kept him sane, and now without her grace what did he had left to hold onto?

The pistol winked at him through the moonlight, whispering soft comforts. He lifted it and pressed it against his temple, his finger curling around the trigger. It would be so easy to end everything now, for what did he have left? But once again, he knew he was being selfish. Perhaps he could live out his days knowing that she was happy, even if he would never experience such happiness. He could watch over her, the ever silent shadow protecting her and those she loved.

He cast the pistol away, and buried his head in his hands and wept, for now he knew, some were never meant to love.